When my children correct me about something from the as-I-say-not-as-I-do category, I like to talk to them about building intellectual authority, and then I prescribe continuing their music lessons and not ignoring grammar. “Early one mornin’ the sun was shinin’, I was layin’ in bed,” sings Bob Dylan, but I don’t turn that part down. Instead I explain that Bob Dylan is a poet, and he knows all the rules, and the characters in his songs may “lay” in, or across, beds sometimes, but that doesn’t mean that either of my children should do that. I mean, say that. I mean—they may certainly lie in their own beds, but only by themselves, for now, in the present tense.  By contrast, Barry Manilow, whose song I use only for the sake of comparison—or when I feel like someone is really hogging the mic and I need to monopolize a 17-bar interlude—could have asked “who shot whom?” at the Copacabana without breaking character. So, children, when I say “like” too frequently, remember that it’s with a wink—not, like, when Ariana Grande says it on Sam & Cat.

Gosh, intellectual authority—authority of all flavors—is so easy to fake within the parent-child relationship. It’s not as easy elsewhere, but I would like to point you towards some of my scholarly work, if you have a few hours, and read German: http://www.beckyloomis.com/Ichbinsehrsehrintelligent. The link has been a little fussy lately, but I hope you will get a chance to read at least a portion of this at some point, because I’m concerned you’re starting to believe me when I tell you I’m an airhead. Or maybe you’ve even witnessed that sort of behavior.  Last night, I was trying, as always, to be subtle! But the hills of [more in a moment] were calling me, because I’ve been on a rare bourbon streak recently.  Bourbon, it turns out, pairs nicely with the campfire smell lingering (permanently?) from the fire I made recently without opening the flue. So I needed to restore balance, and warm up, with a Lagavulin, before the Mary Chapin Carpenter concert. (Christine, she’s a folk singer.)  The bartender told me they didn’t have Lagavulin. I believed her, but she also looked puzzled when I asked for Laphroaig. So I got up—not in a huff—and walked down to the end of the bar to point it out, and the other bartender said “Oh! you mean [something I didn’t understand]?” and held up the bottle of Laphroaig.   “I’ve always pronounced it [same sound]”.  “Maybe,” I said. “I’ve never been to Ireland.”  I have also never been to Scotland, but I know where Islay is, more or less. At any rate, neither of them was disarmed by my mistake, and my white bean chili showed up with the cheese I had asked them to omit. I started to compliment the one bartender’s fishnets, or tell her I had a pair just like them, but that would have been a lie. Mine have the line in back.